Hope for the Holidays
by FDR Babe
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Still suffering from Sherlock's death, the Christmas season no longer holds joy for John, but angst instead. So why is he so drawn to a holiday display in a shop window?


Normally, John loved Christmas. He would bask in atmosphere of twinkling lights, bustling shoppers, roasting chestnuts, and crisp cold air. The challenge of finding the perfect gifts to please those closest to him was a thrill.

This year, however, he loathed the thought of the upcoming holiday. It had been nearly a year since Sherlock's death, yet even the festive Christmas season could not pull him from the depression of spirits that plagued him.

So now he found himself shuffling through busy streets and dragging himself through crowded stores in a vain attempt to restore some normalcy to his life. It wasn't working.

After making a few half-hearted purchases, John found himself increasingly uncomfortable in the environment around him. A constant pressure seemed to be pushing down on him from above, dulling his mind. As he threaded his way through the crowds he could feel his heart rate steadily increasing, a thin layer of sweat now coating his forehead. A sense of panic began to progressively build as his surroundings began closing in on him.

Making his way to a nearby restroom, the John threw himself into the nearest stall, slamming the door closed, and dropping his purchases to the ground. Leaning back against the cool metal wall of the stall, he pressed trembling hands to either side of his face and closed his eyes. In an attempt to calm himself, the doctor took steady, deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling with forced control. Slowly the panic attack began to subside.

When he finally felt recovered enough, John made his way out of the bathroom, and walked the quickest route to his flat. As he made his way down a street slightly away from the more popular shopping areas, he passed the window of a shop selling scientific equipment. On display was a Christmas tree decorated with a collection of beautifully made ornaments representing miniature versions of scientific tools from days gone by. One particular piece – a perfectly scaled down replica of a 19th century brass microscope – caught his eye.

His feet inexplicably carried him into the shop, and before he knew it he had purchased the small ornament. Why, he had no idea. Deciding he just didn't want to analyze the situation any further at that moment – because it would surely lead to overwhelming thoughts of Sherlock – he made his way back to his pathetic little bedsit.

221B had been abandoned after Sherlock's death. Now he had a place to sleep, and occasionally eat, but it would never be called home. John sometimes wondered if he would ever again have a place he could call home. As when he had arrived back in London after being invalided from the army, the former army doctor was once again residing in a small, dingy, soulless flat working his way through his despair and loneliness day by day. Even his limp had returned to cruelly mirror his pre-Sherlock existence.

Arriving at the tiny flat, John placed his purchases on the small desk that also served as his dining table and dropped into the accompanying chair, staring at the small box containing the ornament. Finally, after mentally chastising himself for his nervousness, he opened the box and removed the microscope. It was truly a finely handcrafted piece, and he was amazed to find that if he closed one eye and squinted through the lens, that the miniature was an actual working piece.

Carefully restoring the ornament to its housing, John fell back in his chair and eyed the box thoughtfully. Giving a nod of decision, he retrieved some of the colorful gift paper he had also purchased that day and wrapped the box. When finished, he threw on his coat and made his way down to the street.

Deciding to splurge on a cab, John flagged one down and found his way to the cemetery. Asking the cab to wait, John made his way to Sherlock's grave, and gently placed the brightly wrapped package in front of the simple headstone. Stepping back, John was struck by the contrast of the colorful gift against the somber tones of the marble.

He knew Sherlock never had had the patience for the sentimentality and illogical nature of Christmas, but had borne the holiday season with his version of good grace out of fondness for his blogger. John hoped that if Sherlock was watching from somewhere overhead now, he would grant him this one last instance of perceived frivolity.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," John addressed the headstone. And before he could become too emotionally caught up in the moment and the gloomy environment of the cemetery, he made his way back to the cab.

* * *

With the holiday season, came the usual cold weather-related illnesses and John found himself working extra hours at the surgery. Not that he minded. It kept his mind distracted from other unwelcome thoughts.

Returning exhausted to his bedsit on Christmas Eve, John dragged himself through the door. Throwing his wallet, phone, and keys onto the desk, he was startled to see a stark white unaddressed envelope sitting in the middle of the desk. After examining the piece for a few moments, and cautiously looking around him for signs of an intruder – of which he found none – he withdrew from the envelope a heavy, good-quality card on which was the hand drawn image of a microscope.

John frowned at the image uncomprehendingly, until a beep from his phone drew his attention to the fact that he had a text message from an undisclosed number.

Opening the message, John simply stared at the text, reading and rereading and reading it again. Suddenly his hands began to shake so badly, the phone fell to the floor. A sob ripped its way out of John's throat, as he fell to his knees, dropping his head into his hands, tears leaking through his fingers.

Next to him, the lit screen of the phone continued to display the message: **"****Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."**

Perhaps one day in the future, John Watson would again take joy in the Christmas season. 221B might yet again be home. And a certain consulting detective would begrudgingly allow his flatmate to once again present him with a gift.

There was hope for the holidays.

FIN


End file.
